


Heavy in Your Arms

by mightierthanthecanon



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Heist, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:39:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightierthanthecanon/pseuds/mightierthanthecanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly, Zayn heard what sounded like someone laughing outside the room. No, laugh was too small of a word for the sound. It was genuine, uninhibited, and loud. Whoever was on the other side of the door was awake and, by the lilt of the few words he could catch, Irish too. A chill raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and Zayn could feel his focus narrowing to the small bit of sound on the other side of the door. He straightened up as the door creaked open. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.</p><p>"Afternoon, all. My name is Caroline Watson," said the professor. She was beautiful, and rather stylishly dressed in a wrap dress and leopard scarf. Zayn barely noticed. Standing behind her, face half hidden by a bright green snapback was Niall Horan—love of Zayn’s life, brother of Interpol agent Greg Horan, and the absolute last person he wanted to see at the moment. As if things couldn’t get any worse. Professor Watson gently pushed Niall forward. “And this is our model. Welcome to Portraiture 101.”<br/>---<br/>2 years after cutting ties with Niall Horan, the love of his life, professional art forger!Zayn Malik runs into him at the very worst possible time—undercover at the start of a big job, one that he hopes will be his last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy in Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> So, I realized one day that my obsessive compulsive perfectionism is keeping me from finishing...anything, so this is unedited, unbeta'ed and really just an exercise for me to see if I can finish anything. I'll be trying to post once a week, though, so....5 chapters of heist!fic and dom!zayn (because I can't help myself), here we come!

“So, where’s the lucky lady, sweetheart?” the bartender asked.

Zayn Malik had been waiting patiently for thief, smuggler and occasional 20th century paint supplier Peter Stephens at the bar for a while now, and he was running out of patience. The steady supply of drinks and the growing crowd on the dance floor had allowed him some anonymity, but you can only order so many jack and cokes before someone notices. Given the figurative price on his head and the…project he was currently working on, being noticed was the last thing he wanted to do. Turning to the kid behind the bar, he shook his head, pursing his lips in a frown.

“I…I think I’ve been stood up,” Zayn breathed, sagging a bit for the boy’s benefit. His eyes widened in surprise, and he patted Zayn’s shoulder sympathetically before sending a sympathy round his way.

That would be the last one. After all, there wasn’t any point in waiting any longer. The meet had been set for midnight, the drop off for 30 minutes afterwards. This late, either something had gone wrong and that the mark couldn’t come even if they wanted to, or the entire thing had been a set-up and he had been sitting in a trap for the better part of an hour. Zayn’s stomach twisted suddenly at the thought, and he put his head in his hands.

There was a reason he had gotten an art degree, and it wasn’t to spend every minute of every day looking over his shoulder, or to be suspicious of every person he met, or to hate himself when he went to sleep. He sighed, pushing the fear from his mind. Louis had set this up. Louis had his back. But Stephens…

All of a sudden, the fresh glass of whiskey seemed incredibly enticing. Zayn took a swig, weighing his options. Trap or not, either way he had to leave now, and he had to make it look good, just in case there was someone watching. Wasn’t there always?

Doing a quick sweep of the room failed to ring any alarm bells, so he finally let his gaze settle on the girl who’d been throwing him glances all night. Leaving without anyone would only look suspicious to someone who knew what he was planning, but still. Better safe than sorry. After a moment, she saw him and smiled. He threw back the rest of his drink and stood up.

“FINALLY,” said the bartender, following his eyes to the redhead on the floor, and Zayn laughed out loud. “If you didn’t say something to her, I was going to, and between you and me, you’d never stand a chance against me in the looks department.”

Patting his pocket to make sure the envelope of cash was still inside, he winked at the bartender and put a few bills of his own on the table. He made his way over to the crowd of people, where the girl wound her way across the dance floor, swaying drunkenly to the music. When Zayn was finally next to her, she leaned back into him immediately. She looked up at him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and he knew he was in.

“So,” he asked, staring down at her intently, “Were you dancing for me?” He winced as the line came out of his mouth, but he didn’t really have time to be eloquent. If someone was on his tail, he needed to leave, and he needed to leave now.

“Now, why would I do that?” she asked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow, but her grin gave the lie to her words. She smiled at Zayn almost exactly like a hungry panther surveying its prey. If only she knew the roles were reversed.

That bartender was right. She really didn’t stand a chance.

Three hours later, Zayn’s date was passed out in the bedroom and he was sneaking into his living room to look at his handiwork.  _The Lovers_ , 1927. He brushed his fingers over the canvas. It wasn’t Magritte yet, not even close, by his standards. Glowing in the haze of the moonlight and 4 glasses of Jack Daniel’s, however, even Zayn had to admit that it was getting there, impossible folds and all. He’d used stencils to draw a perfect pencil outline of the original (thank you, internet) onto period-appropriate canvas, and had finally started to fill it in with paint, but 20th century Magritte originals were very rare, and hard to duplicate for a reason. Almost a century had passed since 1927—the paints he had used at the time were very different from what was readily available now, and Zayn had to paint in a very specific way in order to match Magritte’s average paint density throughout.

He draped the sheet back over the canvas and paced his living room floor—or, what counted as a living room, in what was practically a studio with a bed in one corner and a bathroom in the other. Once, twice, three times. Zayn was probably waking up the entire apartment building, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Frustration thrummed through his body like a pulse, guiding his steps and echoing in his ears. Zayn should have known the contact was going to flake on him.

 _Never trust a criminal_ , his mother’s voice echoed in his mind, and he pressed his fingertips to his eyelids as if to force it out. There were a fair number of suppliers he had used in the past, but most of them had gotten out of the business, as he had. Of the remaining few, finding one who would be both able and willing to make the paints soon enough for him to use them presented a challenge. Finding one who’d be willing to wait until after the heist was over, the switch had been made, and the heat had died down to get their money was almost impossible. It was the same list Louis had given him 3 weeks earlier, and it was just as short as it had been then. Just one name on the list, in fact, and it was…

“Peter Stephens?” a voice laughed. A shiver of panic down his spine made Zayn stumble as he spun on his heel and he cursed himself for rushing to leave with someone. He knew better, of course he did. And now this. His date, not nearly as drunk as she had let on, leaned casually on the doorframe, her comfort in his big t-shirt so pronounced that it verged on smugness. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

Of course. Zayn took a deep breath, thumbing the pocketknife in his pocket discreetly, and prepared himself for the worst. It wasn’t much, but it would do, if he had to use it. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it.

“Sorry?” he asked, turning around. There was no way she was hiding any kind of weapon under that shirt, but Zayn watched her carefully anyway. She’s been faking drunken unconsciousness for hours. She’d probably targeted him in the club on purpose, too, and he had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Idiot.

After a few moments of letting him stew, she finally relented, pulling off the red wig and revealing a tangle of bleached blonde hair. “All right, you got me,” she said, conveniently leaving out the part where she “got” him first. “I’m Peter Stephens. Perrie, really, but we all have our disguises, don’t we, _Robbie_?” She narrowed her eyes at him with intent, and Zayn dropped his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable. If he hadn’t already used it twice, Zayn would be rushing to get his passport switched immediately. As it stood now, it was too late.

Zayn could feel his heartbeat in his chest, beating so forcefully he was certain his shirt vibrated. He squeezed the pocketknife tighter in his palm. “Was all this really necessary?” he asked.

She nodded, tracing a finger around the covered canvas. “Of course. You can’t blame me, though. It was Louis’ idea to trick you.”

Zayn shook his head. He knew better. Louis Tomlinson joked about any number of things, but business wasn’t one of them. More importantly, he’d never betray Zayn like that. “No,” he said firmly, stepping between her and the covered painting, “It wasn’t”

Curiosity unsatisfied, she stepped reluctantly away from the easel. “Okay, no it wasn’t. But it was a good joke, right?” She grinned, and her teeth glittered.

Zayn took his finger off the edge of the pocketknife and pushed it back into his jeans pocket. “Yeah,” he deadpanned, heart still racing. “Good joke.”

She went to get the painting materials and Zayn rushed to put the canvas away. Perrie hadn’t been able to see much of it, but still—any information was too much. There was a fine line between idle curiosity and malicious outright spying. He remembered that at least.

When Perrie came back, she was dressed and ready for business. She handed Zayn several pots of paint—more than he would need for one painting, so he’d be able to start over if necessary—and then began explaining how important it was to mix the paints thoroughly, to utilize external light sources and to create convincing “age damage.” When she started talking about the influence of Magritte’s early works, Zayn started to gather her things.

“Yeah, thanks, but I’ve done this before.”

“Of course,” she said coolly. “Payment?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the envelope from earlier. “Half now. The rest to be deposited into a banking account upon verification of the job.”

Perrie blinked. “Verification?” she asked, affecting confusion. It wasn’t cute.

“Of course,” Zayn nodded as he herded her towards the door, bags and all. “You can’t blame me, though. It was Louis’ idea.”

She was still sputtering when he closed the door in her face. Zayn sighed. He was hating himself already.

* * *

Zayn strolled through the door at 11:15. Brilliant. He did a discreet little fist bump and shrugged off his bag, taking a minute to look around the room.

 _Portraiture 101_. It was the only part of Louis’ plan that he was actually excited for. Take the university class, gain access to the building—Zayn was just stoked he was going to be able to get criticism on art that was actually  _his_ for once. The room was gorgeous too. It wasn’t tiny, or fitted with security cameras, or surrounded by guards like he was used too. With the broad windows and the gleaming hardwood floors, the light that filled the room was warm and golden, and Zayn was excited to get started.

“Hey!” A young woman waved at him. “Are you taking the drawing class? We’ve been waiting for ages.”

Just like that, Zayn’s excitement evaporated. As much as he might enjoy the class, he wasn’t there for himself; he was there for the job. For Louis. It was important for people to at least be aware of his existence as a Winston Center art student, in case things went wrong later and he needed an alibi. She was supposed to remember him, not ask him out for drinks afterwards. He looked up at the girl, down to his bag of art supplies, then back up to her.

“Yeah,” he answered carefully. “I’m taking the class.”

Zayn nodded politely to the girl, waiting for her to crack an embarrassed smile before making his way to the other side of the room to get a proper look at his classmates. There were 10 people in the class, including himself, mostly adults—starving artists just out of college and successful self-loathing businessmen, if he had to guess—no one who would know who he was.

Suddenly, Zayn heard what sounded like someone laughing outside the room. No, laugh was too small of a word for the sound. It was genuine, uninhibited, and loud. Whoever was on the other side of the door was  _awake_  and, by the lilt of the few words he could catch, Irish too. A chill raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and Zayn could feel his focus narrowing to the small bit of sound on the other side of the door. He straightened up as the door creaked open. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

"Afternoon, all. My name is Caroline Watson," said the professor. She was beautiful, and rather stylishly dressed in a wrap dress and leopard scarf. Zayn barely noticed. Standing behind her, face half hidden by a bright green snapback was Niall Horan—love of Zayn’s life, brother of Interpol agent Greg Horan, and the absolute last person he wanted to see at the moment. As if things couldn’t get any worse. Professor Watson gently pushed Niall forward. “And this is our model. Welcome to Portraiture 101.”

Just as pale and blonde as Zayn had remembered him, with a smile that literally lit up the room, Niall looked almost exactly as he had the last time Zayn had seen him—in a hospital bed after the Wembley job. The guilt he had successfully put aside for the better part of 2 years resurfaced with a vengeance. Zayn’s breath hitched in his throat as the feeling threatened to overwhelm him, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming, or crying, or whatever his body was trying to do at the moment. Niall hadn’t noticed him yet, and Zayn didn’t need him to have a heart attack when he finally did.

The class was introducing themselves now, going around the room with names and ages and favorite artists. Zayn couldn’t make himself listen to any of it. With Niall so close, all Zayn could think of was him—his laugh, his smell, the way he liked his coffee, their in. Zayn realized again how much of this would be a lie. He had never been good at the pretense—hated it, actually. What Zayn loved was the art—choosing a piece and copying it, living with the art and breathing with it for long enough that it was less of an imitation and more performance art. But he wasn’t painting now. Now, waiting for Niall’s reaction, he knew he was just lying.

“Next?” the professor said, and Zayn knew it was his turn. Looking at Niall was impossible, so he looked at the ground when he answered.

“Robbie Reyes,” he said quietly. “25, and I like, uh…” he glanced up at Niall, whose face brightened immeasurably as he realized it was Zayn, then fell, just as quickly, as the 2 years of silence closed in on him.

Zayn looked back to Professor Watson. “Angels,” he answered suddenly, “I like drawing angels.”

He had never been one for cupids and seraphim, but if Zayn ever happened to sketch a modern-day angel, he knew whose face he’d be drawing inspiration from. Niall had the brightest blue eyes Zayn had ever seen off of a canvas, and his cheeks were slightly pink, giving him a look of wholesome innocence which Zayn knew to be completely misleading. The fact that Zayn had been dreaming of him on and off again for years probably didn’t help.

The last few students introduced themselves. Zayn watched Niall play the room like he used to do during heists, when he was running distraction. Each student looked entirely invested in him and his attention, so that by the time it was time for Niall to introduce himself, he had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand.

"Yeah, it’s Niall here,” he said finally, looking anywhere but at Zayn. “I’ll be modeling for you today, as I am quite obviously not a teacher." It wasn’t funny, but his accent was adorable and his laughter infectious. The rest of the class laughed along with him. They couldn’t see the tightness around his mouth, or hear the distress in his voice.

"I’m changing and I’ll be back out in a bit. Just wanted to say hey before I got my clothes off” he said, then waved to the class and headed out the door.

Zayn wanted to get up and follow him. He didn’t.

"Now," began the professor, "you can get out your easels and set them up around the room.”

Blinking into the sunlight, Zayn strode past the gathering of students to get his easel from the closet. Pencil was not Zayn’s favorite medium—he liked it even less than charcoal, to be honest. It was much too dry and far too boring for his tastes. To Zayn, pencil sketches were for medical journals, or police suspects. All the same, he knew how to do it. With this, as with everything, he had a routine. Zayn thought about where he would put a model to make best use of the light and sat directly in front of where his face would be. As soon as he had settled on a location, Zayn opened his bag and took out a small leather case. From it, he drew three pencils of varying thickness, two erasers and an adjustable sharpener. He sharpened each of the pencils carefully, from thickest to thinnest, then scrubbed off the dirty edges of one eraser before rubbing the other between his fingers as it warmed up.

The other students slowly clustered around Zayn with their easels, each looking for the light he had already found. Zayn closed his eyes, trying not to remember Niall the way he was 2 years ago. The light in his eyes, the freckles on his skin. Zayn was not going to fuck this up. He wasn’t.

When the heavy wooden swung open, the confident crowd pleaser was nowhere to be found. The boy walking through the door now, in the bright blue superhero tights, was shy and quiet, glancing around the room with wide eyes before being ushered into the middle of the room by the professor. Watson was placing Niall exactly where Zayn had guessed she would, pulling his limbs roughly into place until he vaguely resembled an underdressed superhero, legs spread and hands on his hips. Niall’s hands twitched nervously as he let himself be moved. An aborted movement, somewhere between a scratch and a restless fidget. Zayn sucked in a breath, following Niall’s fingers to his hips, where they dug so tight into his skin it looked almost painful. Caroline Watson gave instructions on the sketch they were going to do and Zayn picked up his pencil with unseeing eyes and began to sketch, fully focused on that barely visible tremor in Niall’s fingers. It was like muscle memory, watching him, and Zayn knew what was going to happen even before it started.

At karaoke bars, talent shows…even the crappy musical theater they used to put on at camp, Niall was happy to be on stage, to be the center of attention, even. When he could lose himself in something, could hide himself behind another artist, another song, a character who emphatically  _was not_ him, it didn’t matter how many people were looking. When it was just him, however…

Professor Watson continued to fuss with Niall while Zayn tried to sketch, and he tried to block it out, but couldn’t. Outline mostly finished, Zayn looked up at Niall’s face again. His previously alabaster cheeks were mottled with patches of pink, and his eyes were shifting now as well, too scared to look at the students and yet too nervous to close his eyes. He mostly stared at the floor. Zayn stared at Niall, ready. To do what, exactly? He didn’t know.

“Jesus Christ, Horan!” the teacher breathed.

There was no way he was going to be able to finish anything like this. His eyes flickered from Niall’s face to his lips. Yep. Still trembling. It wasn’t the perfect romantic-comedy meeting that Zayn had imagined, nor was it the tragic, comic-book backstory meeting that he had expected, but it would have to do. Zayn wasn’t going to let Niall have a panic attack in front of the classroom just to maintain his cover. He would never risk Niall’s life like that. Not again.

Zayn glanced at the clock as the professor swore quietly under her breath. It had only been 20 minutes or so—no one’s sketch was so detailed that a few last minute changes would derail them entirely.

He checked his backpack and stood up, holding his hands out to the professor to signal his absolute lack of authority. “Mind if I give it a go?” Zayn asked. With a slight a roll of her eyes, the professor nodded.

Zayn could sense Niall’s eyes on him, probably wondering what the hell he was doing. Even Zayn wasn’t sure. His legs felt weak, and his heart was in his throat. It was only through sheer force of will that he kept his hands from shaking.

“May I?” he asked gently.

It was a risk. Zayn wasn’t exactly Niall’s favorite person in the world. Then again, he wasn’t too happy with himself either. Niall stared at him, eyes wide. He didn’t quite nod, but Zayn saw the permission on his face. He was still ridiculously easy to read. Zayn filed the thought away before grabbing an old painter’s palette out of his bag.

“Here,” he said softly, putting the palette into Niall’s hands. Like this, Niall’s hands were pretty much exactly where they had been before, except now they were around the palette instead of on his hips.

Niall looked down at the palette, then back up at him. “What—” he broke off nervously.

 _What are you doing? What’s going on? What the hell happened to you?_ Zayn had an idea of the thoughts running through Niall’s mind. Now wasn’t the time. For either of them. Zayn smothered his concern in the cool voice of command to which he was so accustomed.

“Keep your hands here,” Zayn said, slightly more forcefully, “Don’t let go, yeah?” He grasped both of Niall’s hands and wrapped them around the edge of the palette. It had been years since Zayn had touched Niall’s skin, and it almost hurt how much he wanted to wrap his arms around him. He didn’t. He walked away.

“Yeah,” Niall murmured. His blue eyes narrowed, accusation written in every line of his body as he repeated Zayn’s admonition. “Don’t let go.”

Zayn slunk back to his seat, acknowledging the grateful nods around the room with a small and entirely false smile. Every time he looked at Niall, he felt the accusation heavy in his heart like lead. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve it. He did. He deserved anything Niall felt like doing. Zayn sighed, and focused on his sketch.

Eventually, Zayn lost track of time. “So, now we’re at the halfway mark,” the teacher said. “We’d be further if our model managed to maintain his—

“He’s fine,” Zayn found himself interrupting. The professor turned to look down her nose at him before continuing. Zayn grinned up at Niall before remembering, then snapped to Professor Watson.

“Occasionally, artists make the mistake of focusing too much on one part of a drawing. So this is a test. Let’s see if any of you here have focused on anything in particular.”

“I keep drawing and redrawing his hands,” answered one girl, raising her own.

“The outline,” said another.

Answers went around the room as Zayn stared at his drawing, mindful of Niall’s presence just before him. Eventually, however, it was his turn.

“Robbie?” asked the professor. Niall scoffed, then covered it with a cough. Lies and misrepresentation. Niall’s favorite. At least they were picking up right where they left off.

Sighing, Zayn glanced down at his sketch. It was…Zayn shook his head. It was Niall. What more was there to say? He swallowed.

“Shadows,” he said, for lack of a better answer. “I think I’m caught up in the shadows.”

Niall looked at Zayn.

Zayn looked at Niall.

“I think I’m focused on the outline,” someone said. Zayn didn’t hear.

Caroline stepped to the front of the room. “30 minutes left,” she said brightly. “Now let’s see if we can get these finished.”

* * *

30 minutes and 4 long walks around the building later, Zayn was talking himself out of staying when he heard the door to the building slam open.

“You’re doing a job? Here?” Niall asked, righteous anger lending a sting to his words. Zayn froze. No hi, no hello…Zayn supposed he deserved it.

 “This is my life,” Niall continued, “You can’t just walk in and use me for…whatever you have planned.” Niall kept walking, anger propelling him forward.

Zayn swallowed, hurrying a little to keep up. It was a perfectly reasonable assumption. After all, he had used their relationship in the past, had used Niall. He deserved it. Even so, to have that be Niall’s first impression…Zayn rushed to correct him.

“No, Niall. It’s not like that.” The lie died on Zayn’s lips and he stopped, not knowing what to say.

Niall filled in the blanks for him. “What, you’re not doing a job, or you’re not using me?” His eyes flashed in the sunlight and Zayn felt his stomach twist.

“Niall—

“You know what, forget it.”

Zayn did, dropping the subject to walk silently next to the subject of both his dreams and his nightmares for the past 2 years. Niall was bigger now than he was in Zayn’s memories, broader. Zayn’s eyes flicked over him as subtly as he could manage, taking in all the details couldn’t let himself appreciate during class. He wondered if Niall was doing the same.

“Robbie?” Niall asked suddenly, interrupting Zayn’s train of thought, “Really?”

Zayn readjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Look, Ni—

“You’re not actually Ghost Rider, you know,” muttered Niall, shaking his head. “No matter what that guy told you.”

Zayn grinned despite himself. Bickering. He could do bickering. “I mean…I do have the motorcycle,” he said, glancing at Niall out of the corner of his eye.

Niall laughed out loud. “You would,” he said, then stopped as he saw the look on Zayn’s face.

It had been months—years, actually—since they had seen each other. In that time, Zayn had prepared himself for any number of possible run-ins with Niall. Absolutely none of them involved the sound of Niall’s laugh, or the fond bickering that marked almost every holiday that they had ever spent together. He wasn’t prepared for this.

Cars honked and swerved around them, and the wind whistled above their heads. Neither of them moved.

“I missed you,” Niall said quietly. Zayn heard it, and nodded, forcing himself to be still.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn said helplessly, leaving out the fact that he missed Niall too, the nights he’d spent awake in his bed, hand motionless over the phone, the hundreds of unfinished sketches littering his sketchbooks. What would be the point?

Zayn waved his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said again, hoping that Niall would understand  _for everything_.

“Yeah,” Niall said curtly, avoiding his eyes and getting on a bus Zayn hadn’t even noticed. “See you next week, right?”

Zayn sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

It was going to be a long week.

* * *

 

A faint buzzing came from the direction of Zayn’s bedroom, and he knew exactly what it was. _Supersecret Heist Meeting. 15 minutes._

Zayn dipped his brush back in the paint and started over, singing quietly to himself to steady his nerves. He didn’t get his phone. Zayn had painted  _The Lovers_  over and over with normal supplies for the past few weeks, but now? Now, he was working with the real deal. Perrie’s brushes and paints seemed to be well-made, and perfectly suited to his task. Unfortunately for Zayn, “perfectly suited” meant “significantly different from what he was used to.” At least he had time to practice. After all, the only other thing to do was brood over Niall.

It already felt like the longest week of his life..and it had only been two days. Zayn had been waiting for this day for months, his excitement for Louis’ supersecret heist meeting had been all but consumed by his anxiousness over Niall. Zayn just didn’t know what to do.

Niall had the same number. Zayn knew he hadn’t changed it, just like he knew Niall hadn’t stopped emptying the dishwasher each and every night, or watching every Derby game of the season. Niall was still there, always had been. Zayn had just…chosen not to come back. He’d chosen to stay away.

The buzzing returned, louder this time, and eventually Zayn dragged himself away from the easel.

He ended up at Louis’ crappy apartment, later than he had wanted and more distracted than he had expected to be. The 60 minute practice session had done nothing to erase the memory of Niall from his mind, the warmth of Niall’s hands from his skin…Zayn pushed them from his thoughts, along with the guilt, and knocked on the door.

“You’re late!” Louis’ gripe came through the wooden frame before he had even opened it. There was not a hint of worry in his eyes, but Zayn knew him well enough to know he was uneasy. This was important to him. Still, Louis’ eyes brightened when Zayn stepped into the small room, and he knew that Louis was just as happy to see him as he was.

Zayn slung an arm around his shoulder. “That’s ‘cause I’ve already said yes, twat,” he reminded him. Louis had asked for his help first, months ago. He was the best forger in the business. More than that, he was Louis’ friend, had been for years. The fact that he had been trying to get out of the business wasn’t important. Zayn had said yes without even thinking twice, just as Louis had expected.

“Yeah, well,” Louis said, glaring at him good-naturedly, “Come on already. They’re all here, except—” He paused, looking at Zayn like an appraiser searching for cracks.

It was exactly what Zayn was waiting for, and he rose to the occasion.

“Yes, except for the Commissioner’s son,” Zayn repeated, as if Louis himself were ridiculous for even suggesting him. It just the right amount of sarcasm to raise Louis’ hackles.

Louis bristled at that, then pushed Zayn in the direction of the living room.

He only had time to feel bad for a second, then he was raising his head, taking in the sound of laughter and the smell of…

“What is that smell?” Zayn asked. “I thought you were buying pizza?”

Louis’ laugh was bright and unexpected, and shook the guilt from Zayn’s thoughts just as quickly. “Harry cooked,” he said.

“Really?” Zayn grinned.

A mess of curls poked up from the couch at that exact moment.

“Yes, really,” Harry said, sounding affronted. “See?” He pulled Zayn into a hug while at the same time managing to point out the food cooling in the kitchen area.

“Yes, Harry,” Zayn said indulgently, hugging him back, but something in Harry’s tone struck him as off, somehow, and he held on for longer than necessary before looking around the room.

His face must have betrayed his confusion—always had, to them—because Louis glanced meaningfully at Liam. Liam didn’t look as lost as Harry had, but hugged him just as tightly.

“We weren’t sure you’d come,” Liam admitted, pulling away. “And that would have been okay too, but we’re glad to see you.”

Zayn felt Niall’s absence like a physical weight around his neck and coughed to have a reason to pull away. “That’s enough,” he stated, forcing a smile. “Let’s get to work.”

Louis grinned. “Just like old times,” he said.

“But with better food.” Harry snorted, “Remember Family Day at camp? We had to—

Zayn stopped him. “Yes, Harry,” he says. “We remember.”

“Sophia cooks,” Liam said dreamily. Louis threw a pillow at his face, but Zayn narrowed his eyes, disbelieving.

“Does she?” he asked.

Liam colored, and ducked his head. “She…well…”

Louis raised an eyebrow.

“I cook,” Liam admitted, “But she helps!”

This time, the smile on Zayn’s face was real. “I bet she does,” he said, laughing.

Louis nodded at Liam, and Liam nodded back.

Of course that had been his intention the whole time. Zayn shook his head, resolving to strangle Louis at the next available opportunity.

“Shall we?” Louis asked, then brought out this job’s notebook. Tiny, slim, and very very flammable, just in case. It had been Niall’s idea, after half a bottle of vodka and 2 back-to-back viewings of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

Zayn focused even harder on Louis, organizing materials and reminding everyone of dates and times. It was to be at the end of the month, 4 weeks from now. Zayn’s art class id card would get them access to the building across the street. Harry would be getting the auction house blueprints from the architect company, then Louis would be blowing up a caved-in tunnel passage to get access to the auction house basement from below, and replacing the original Matisse with a duplicate painted by Zayn. Louis’ father wouldn’t know he’d been fooled until it was too late for him to do anything about it.

If he did decide to buy something else, all their work would be for naught, but that was the beauty of planning things around mob bosses. Everything was arranged in advance. Troy Austin wasn’t attending an auction for a children’s charity, he was receiving payment for services rendered. All Louis had to do was follow the money, and that had always been his specialty. Zayn just sat back and listened. Hopefully, all he would have to do was paint.

“You said four weeks from now?” Liam piped up. Louis nodded.

Liam grinned, shy.

“I think I have a way to get you in.”

Zayn looked over his shoulder at the notebook. “Into the auction house?”

Liam nodded, too excited to speak.

Louis glanced from side to side. “Well?”

“I’m…we’re,” Liam stopped, collected himself, and started again. “Sophia and I are engaged.”

Harry launched himself at Liam, stumbling over his own feet. “Congratulations, mate!” he said warmly, eyes wide. “You proposed?”

Liam nodded. “Yeah, just a few weeks ago.”

“Wow,” said Zayn. He wants to be happy for him, wants to be excited, but all he can think of is the ring in his pocket, the promise that he made and never fulfilled, the speech that he wrote, but never spoke. The day Zayn realized that this life wasn’t good enough for Niall—that  _Zayn_  wasn’t good enough for Niall. His smile faltered.

“She knows about the Batman costume, right?” Zayn tried to joke. It worked.

Liam grinned, his cheeks pink. “She does,” he said.

“Shit,” said Zayn finally, “Then congratulations.”

It was around this time that Zayn realized Louis wasn’t saying anything, hadn’t said anything, in fact, since Liam made his big announcement.

He stood up quickly, the guilt over Niall a slow simmer in the back of his mind. “Louis, where are the drinks?” Zayn asked.

He jumped up without being asked, practically stomping out of the room.

“Louis?” Zayn asked gently, when they were safely away from the kitchen. On the couch, Harry and Liam were talking too quiet for Zayn to hear. For a moment, he felt unattached, unmoored. For a moment, Zayn wished desperately that Niall were there—to crack a joke for Liam, to thaw the ice that’s formed around Louis, to just make everything better merely by being  _himself_ , but he wasn’t, and thinking about it wasn’t making things better. For the moment, Zayn suppressed the thought.

Louis was grabbing bottles from the freezer, putting them carelessly on the counter where they clattered with glasses Zayn prayed were shatter-resistant.

“Louis,” tried Zayn again.

“A FEW WEEKS?” Louis finally shouted, all his anger and resentment distilled into three short words of volume. “Which means he’s been thinking about it for what, two months? Three?”

Zayn closed his eyes, thinking of that last night—standing by Niall’s hospital bed, box in his pocket. “If there’s something Liam didn’t tell you,” he said, twisting the rings around his fingers, “I’m sure there was a reason for it.”

“We’re friends, Zayn. Not business partners.” Louis glared at him. “What reason could there be?” 

Zayn sighed. “Look, Louis—

“It was two months,” Liam’s voice rang out in the silence, “Not three.” It calmed Louis down, a little.

“Oh,” he said, petulant.

Louis glanced at the bottles, then at Zayn. Well, at least that hadn’t changed. Zayn gathered everything together and carried it over to the couch.

“And…I wasn’t sure you’d approve. I was worried—

Louis barked out a laugh. “What, that I’d drag you to a hundred different strip clubs?” The tension in the room dissipated immediately.

Liam looked up, a hesitant smile on his face. “Yeah, actually,” he said.

“You know he’s going to do that anyway,” Harry said, relieved.

Zayn shook his head. “Just add it to the list,” he said, opening the bottles. He watched Louis out of the corner of his eye.

"Congratulations, Liam," Louis said finally, coming around the sofa to stand behind Liam.

“Wait—will Sophia mind if you break out the batman costume one more time?” Harry asked, eyes glinting with eagerness. “Batman-themed bachelor party???”

Zayn agreed immediately. “Yes,” he said. Harry high-fived him.

“No,” Liam said, but didn’t stop smiling. “Are you  _sure_ you haven’t had a drink yet.”

Louis nodded. “I think his day job has gone to his head.” 

And just like that, they were on the same team again. Zayn would never understand it. Not that he was complaining.

“Wait, what day job?” He asked, pouring the drinks. 

Harry looked at him. “Day care?” Zayn looked up in surprise, but Harry was already shrugging. “It’s steady work, and I’m good at it. Plus  _babies_ ,” he added grinning. Suddenly, he turned on Liam, eyes wide.

“Don’t start,” Liam warned, but Harry was too happy to pay him any attention. He looked around, then just smiled.

“I’m just happy we’re all together,” he said.

Zayn’s face fell and Harry touched his shoulder apologetically.

“Mostly together,” Harry amended.

“Yeah,” said Zayn, throwing back a shot of tequila. “Mostly.”


End file.
